


Stone Tape

by NoShabbyTigers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ghosts, Mollcroft, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 12:30:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12012768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoShabbyTigers/pseuds/NoShabbyTigers
Summary: Mycroft Holmes was old and tired and had lived half his life mourning a dream that had almost been his. Every year he waited for her and every year she returned if only for a few fleeting moments. Yes, Molly Hooper was dead, but the streets of London would not let her go.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> There is a theory about hauntings that ghosts are simply a recording etched into the place where they met their death - a stone tape. This concept, though largely discounted by many parapsychologists, has been the basis for many a ghost story. Can a place hold a dumb memory of a violent death that plays over and over again? Or, is there something more that lives behind the mindless repetition of a tragic moment? 
> 
> Intrigued by this idea, I decided to incorporate it into the world of Sherlock. I hope you enjoy it and though the story is eventually a sad one, there is great joy and love to be found along the way. 
> 
> As always, these characters belong to the brilliant Mark Gattis and Steven Moffat. Thank you for creating them and your tolerance when we borrow them.

Prologue

The building loomed grey and hulking in the darkness and Mycroft Holmes stood waiting as the minutes ticked away towards midnight. It was deep winter and the cold and damp bit into him fiercely. His back and knees and hips ached and as he leaned heavily on his cane, he once more wondered how he had managed to live so long. He wasn’t bitter but a certain inner grimness had crept into his character after he had passed his 85th year. He chuckled in spite of himself, the hollow sound echoing down the alley. Molly would have told him that he had been adequately grim even without the existential thoughts and physical wasting of advancing age.

Molly. He closed his eyes and she was there. She was there through his long days and his restive nights. She slipped gently into his dreams and left him gasping upon waking for the want of her. She was with him as he walked along the Thames and traveled the streets of the great city that they had both loved.

He was here for her now as he had been here for her every year for the past thirty three years. He had never missed this particular anniversary even after he had a mild heart attack and Emma Carlton had bribed his driver to disregard his summons. That certainly hadn’t worked and how angry she had been when he returned to the residence chilled through and hacking with what eventually turned into pneumonia. He had lived though, too stubborn and willful by half to die. He had been here on crystal clear nights, in heavy rain and in snow. He had wept here, had raged here and had eventually come to a place of acceptance here.

Mycroft was consistent, if nothing else, and he walked through life with this particular date, time and place inscribed into his soul. Emma, god bless her, was gone now as was Charles, his old driver from so long ago. They had both tried in their way to offer him comfort and he had appreciated them though he seldom showed his gratitude. He should have made more of an effort but even as he chastised himself, he knew that they had understood and loved him anyway. Such had been the story of his life.

Yes, they had loved him as had a few rare others. Why, he wasn’t certain as he was not the most pleasant of men and like his little brother, so many years gone, he struggled to express emotions and underlying humanity. Molly alone had known him, loved him and for a few short moments she had been his. What a gift she had been to a middle aged man, jaundiced by the world and his own misguided philosophies.

The wind rose, cold and bitter on his face. It was almost time. He could feel the gathering energy in the ground under his feet and could sense the silent vibration of the past thick across stone façade of the building. It was happening, just as it had happened over and over again for decades. She was coming, it was coming and as much as he told himself each passing year that this time would be the last, the spirits of the past called to him and he had to come.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Mycroft was irritated and the sharp clip of his footsteps echoed off the hard flooring as he strode down the corridors of St. Bart’s towards the morgue betrayed that irritation. He had texted Sherlock last night and had left several increasingly firm messages on Sherlock’s mobile. He had even stooped so low as to stop by Baker Street and the little bastard had still eluded him. Mycroft’s shoulders were tight, he had a headache coming on and he was still livid after finally badgering Sherlock’s location from a stubborn and petulant Mrs. Hudson. The small woman had no love for him as was obvious by her expression when he knocked at her door.

No, none of Sherlock’s little friends liked him and that was just fine. He just needed them to do as he asked in regards to his wayward little brother. Though their disdain did not hurt his feelings it had complicated things. Why had Sherlock suddenly developed the need for friends anyway? It was damned inconvenient, especially now when Mycroft really needed something.

He rounded the last corner, the door to the morgue and attached forensic lab straight ahead. Of all of Sherlock’s little friends, he understood Molly Hooper the least and best of all. She had been alternately used, ignored and manipulated by dear Sherlock for years and yet she was stubbornly loyal and fiercely protective of him. It had to be those messy curls and blazing blue eyes. If only Miss Hooper knew how dear Sherlock used these carefully cultivated attributes to charm and wheedle and get his own way. Mycroft had no such advantages but no matter, the breadth and reach of his power and superior intellect trumped those damned curls, brilliant smile and expressive face.

Yes, the woman was a fool even if her file told him that she was a capable and talented pathologist. She gushed and made cow eyes at his brother even as he ignored and hurt her over and over again. She was a stammering, common and overly sentimental creature. Not very attractive either and her taste in clothing was a misery, both for her and for anyone who had to look at her.

He pushed through the last set of double doors. Miss Hooper was bent over a series of lab vessels, fully gloved and wearing protective eye gear. An appalling salmon jumper was just visible beneath her clean white lab coat. Someone should write her a memo to wear said coat at all time as it hid a multitude of fashion transgressions. Sherlock sat at a microscope nearby and in a foul mood by the set of his mouth and his tense posture.

Sherlock, without looking up said one word, “No.”

Mycroft, his lips pursed looked down his nose at his little brother. “It’s your turn and you promised.”

Sherlock impatiently looked up from the microscope and glared at Mycroft. “I said no. I am in the middle a critical experiment and I cannot spare the time. You have an entire staff at your disposal. I suggest you re-shuffle the responsibilities for your petty coups and horrendously tiresome international crises to them. I will do the next two, I promise.”

Mycroft saw Molly Hooper cut her eyes at them, her mouth turned downed slightly and she re-focused on what appeared to be a critical juncture in her work. Her shoulders tensed as well and Mycroft could tell she was anxious and the tension quickly mounting in the room had not helped. Her pipette clinked against the side of a beaker.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he shifted his focus to Molly. His voice held a quiet warning. “Molly, focus.” Her head dropped and her attention snapped back to work.

“That’s what you said the last time. This is an emergency and you have to do it, Sherlock. I will not take no for an answer.” Mycroft crossed his arms, drew up to his full height and waited. “You have an hour. They are waiting at the usual hotel. A car is waiting out front. Time to scuttle, little brother. I will help your Miss Hooper finish up here.”

Molly let out an inadvertent squeak, her head snapped up and the panicked look in her eyes betrayed her dismay. Once again her pipette clinked against a beaker. Both brother’s heads swiveled towards her in tandem and both voices spoke as one. “FOCUS!” Molly startled and then looked cowed, her eyes looking beseechingly at Sherlock.

Sherlock, ignoring Molly, rose quickly and grabbing his coat and scarf, he angrily put them on. “Fine, have it your way but if this experiment goes awry it is on your heads” He glared at both Molly and Mycroft. “It had better not be another revival of “Les Miserables” or I will slash my own throat. Master of the house, I had a dream, misty in the river…what overwrought drivel.”

Mycroft smiled evilly and his eyes shone in perverse glee. “Oh no, brother mine, it is far worse than that. Oh, how can I say this?” He paused for effect and then, in a surprisingly good tenor, he sang “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, even though the sound of it is truly quite atrocious!”

“Noooooo….” Cried Sherlock, his voice desperate. “Not “Mary Poppins”, anything but “Mary Poppins”! Oh god, jolly holidays and feed the birds and I love to laugh…Please Mycroft, don’t make me. This is cruel, even for you. This goes way beyond drivel and qualifies as pure torture.”

“Sorry, Sherlock, but Mummy is waiting and it’s you she wants. Finally getting even with you for dissolving grand mama’s pearl broach in vinegar, I should say. You were such a wretched child.”

Sherlock shot another look at Mycroft and nodding at Molly, he swept out the door, his curls flying and his eyes rolling. “I will get you for this, brother mine.”

Mycroft watched his brother go, Molly Hooper forgotten. He smiled and started to laugh in spite of himself. He had indeed gotten Sherlock and it had been long overdue. He heard another small squeak and turned his eyes to Molly Hooper, who, instead of looking at him indignantly, was struggling with suppressed laughter. She caught his eye, looking slightly hysterical in her lab coat and goggles, and something in her let loose and she laughed in earnest.

Her laughter was infectious and Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh along with her. Her eyes were running behind her goggles and every time she started to get herself under control, she looked at Mycroft and started up again. Finally, she turned away from him, carefully put down the pipette and removed her goggles and gloves. Still snickering and trying to regain her composure, she reached for a tissue to dry her eyes and blow her nose. Her laughter became subdued as if she suddenly remembered who he was. She looked at him nervously and then looked quickly away.

Mycroft, anticipating her nerves and her need, stepped forward and offered her his handkerchief, which she accepted cautiously but gratefully. What she said next both surprised and pleased Mycroft to no end.

“Serves him right it does. He has been a bloody bastard all morning and he deserves the worst the west end has to offer. I rather enjoyed “Mary Poppins” but it will definitely kill him to sit through it. Well done, Mycroft.” Molly, after wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, looked at him wearily now that her laughter was exhausted and continued, “Fortunately, Sherlock is out of the picture but unfortunately the timing of your mutual performance has ruined our experiment and we have to start all over. I hope you have an extra six hours and a steady hand as recreating this hemoglobin panel is going to be a bloody pain.”

Mycroft winced at her inadvertent pun, crossed to her and glanced down at her notes. “Well, let’s just take a look. Sherlock was always rubbish in chem class. Brilliant ideas but erratic thought processes. I, on the other hand, was methodical, patient and thorough. Let’s see if we can cut this little amusement down to three hours to show him up, shall we?” Mycroft glanced at her as if for approval, removed and hung up his suit jacket and donned a lab coat from the rack by the door.

Molly looked at him incredulously, her nerves up again at the thought of three hours alone in the lab with Mycroft Holmes. “Listen, don’t you have better things to do this afternoon? I can get this done on my own so you don’t have to stay.”

“I wouldn’t think of it Miss Hooper. It was my arrival that caused the experiment to fail and according to my CCTV feeds you have been at work for almost nine hours already. Even you, as self-sacrificing as you are, can see the logic in a bit of assistance to smooth the way. Also, our mutual note to Sherlock after we complete the panel in record time will irritate him almost as much as “Mary Poppins”. Oh, I do hope that Mummy insists on a family dinner afterwards.” Mycroft smiled smugly. “Poor, poor Sherlock. Now, let’s get on with it.”

The hours flew and though Miss Hooper was nervous at first, his silence and almost uncanny ability to anticipate her working methodology reassured her. By the time they had reached the last critical portion of testing, she had relaxed to the point where she no longer stuttered and her communication with him had become confident and sure. She had even given him a broad smile when he had made a particularly insightful suggestion that had cut at least 45 minutes off of the process.

Two hours and fifty minutes after they began, the experiment was complete. Mycroft wrote up notes for Sherlock while Molly cleared the lab benches and set the glass beakers and piping to wash. It was late and the lab was silent except for the clink of tempered glass and the quiet scratching of Mycroft’s fountain pen. Molly looked over Mycroft’s notes and except for the sly dig of the underlined completion time at the top of the document, the notes were concise and accurate.

Mycroft stretched after the long hours bent over the microscope. What had begun as an unpleasant family mission had ended up being a refreshing afternoon. If only his own work could be accomplished in under three hours simply by hard work and application of scientific principles. Wishful thinking, that.

He watched Miss Hooper out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps he had misjudged her. Once focused on her work, she had transformed from a stuttering girl to a capable and self-assured professional. Her clothing was still awful and her attachment to Sherlock was still puzzling but then again, so was his. She had a certain charm about her too that was more than likely due to her generosity of spirit. She was totally unaware of just how much she meant to his brother. No, Sherlock was not just using her and on some level, she probably sensed as much.

Enough, he thought. He had enjoyed his afternoon playing consulting lab assistant but it was time to go home. He smiled slightly to himself. No word from Sherlock. Mummy must be enjoying his dismay more than usual and dinner plans had definitely been made. He had just removed and hung up the lab cat and shrugged back into his suit jacket when his mobile vibrated.

_You knew about the Scotch Steak House didn’t you? You are worse than a bastard and I shall retaliate._

Mycroft’s smile widened. How Mummy had managed to pick one of the worst restaurants in London he would never know. Speaking of dinner…

“Miss Hooper, I would be very pleased if you would join me for dinner. I know a lovely rustic Italian cafe on the way to your flat. I insist you allow me to feed you and then take you home. You are past your time and I deduce by the crisp bags and take away coffee cups in the bin that Sherlock bought you lunch.” He raised one eyebrow and waited.

Molly, once again flustered by the unexpected offer, reverted to her nervous stammer. “Oh no, that’s quite all right. You don’t have to… I just…” Her voice trailed off as she looked at him from across the lab and she stopped herself mid-sentence. Taking a deep breath and quelling her nerves, she raised her chin defiantly and nodded her acceptance. It was late and she was tired and hungry.

Mycroft acknowledged her with a tilt of his head and after Molly had gathered her things, they left the morgue together. Several surprised sets of eyes followed their progress, little Molly Hooper in her baggy clothes and a tall, well dressed professional man. Quite the odd couple they were, Molly trying to match the tall man’s stride and failing.  Mycroft, finally noticing her lagging behind, stopped by the lobby doors and waited for her to catch up. She was indeed a tiny little thing.

The night was cool but pleasant as they crossed the pavement to the street. A long black car drew up to the curb and Mycroft stepped forward and opened the door for Molly, who hesitated her eyes growing wide at the capacious back seat and beautiful leather interior. “I, uh… Mycroft, I have been in the morgue all day and reek of chemicals. Are you sure you…”

He stepped into her personal space and took a long draw of breath through his nose. She fidgeted backwards but he caught her by the wrist and held her in place. “Alcohol, disinfectant with an underlying trace of formalin.” Molly blushed as he continued. “Faint smell of coffee and some sort of lightly floral soap…Freesia?”

Molly nodded, impressed that he, like Sherlock could detect so much with so little data. Mycroft, tired of waiting, dropped her wrist and continued, “You will do and the café is just a short ride from here. Now get in, Miss Hooper, I am a busy man and my time is short.”

She looked up into his face, half in shadow, the lights of passing traffic reflecting in his eyes.  He looked neutral, if a bit impatient and he was being remarkably pleasant for Mycroft. Sherlock had told her his brother was a total shit and she had believed him. Perhaps there was more to the older Holmes than she had been led to believe.

Concerns addressed, she slipped into the car and across the buttery leather of the back seat. Mycroft followed her, quietly closing the door after him and the long, black car eased out into light traffic. Miss Hooper was silent and looked out the window at the passing lights. He relaxed back into the seat and inhaled deeply. Lovely scent, freesia. 

******

Mycroft was finally in bed, a glass of mineral water and his mobile on his bedside table. He was reading the latest intelligence update from his office, the previously read pages scattered across the damask coverlet. He was tired and gathering up the discarded pages, he carefully put them face down on the table, crossing the unread pages on top of them face up. He would read the rest over coffee in the morning.

His mobile buzzed. About time, dear brother, he thought as he picked up the mobile and glanced at the screen.

_That was interminable. I never knew a tenderloin could taste like sodden shoe but somehow they managed._

_I hope you are happy. Mummy had a lovely time and I have heartburn, both from the charmingly saccharine performance and the wretched food. You owe me, brother mine._

_Isn’t “Matilda” opening soon? Or would you rather “Kinky Boots”? I think the latter and you can translate the salacious bits for mater and pater._

Mycroft grinned and texted back. He would not rise to the bait but would give Sherlock something to chew on.

_Your experiment is complete and the notes are waiting for you in the lab. Your Miss Hooper is quite competent when you aren’t torturing her. We had a lovely time._

There was a long pause before Sherlock responded.

_LOVELY TIME? You had a lovely time? Are you ill or did you manage to get into the controlled substances. You never have “a lovely time”. What have you done with my pathologist?_

Mycroft’s grin grew even wider as he texted back.

_I suggest you contact the fumbler you had following us. He took quite a few photos and am sure will have a fine tale to tell. Goodnight, Sherlock._

Mycroft put the mobile down on the table, took a small sip of mineral water and turned off the light. He fell asleep smiling as his phone continued to vibrate, ignored on his bedside table.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Things had proceeded quickly from there in a rather one-sided fashion. He had his people watching all of Sherlock’s social circle as one could never be too careful where his little brother was concerned so it only took a modicum of energy and a sight tweak of scheduling to up the surveillance on the small pathologist. He justified his actions by telling himself he was only insuring Sherlock avoided the trouble which so often found him. However, self-examination had told him that this was not the entire truth.

He had been oddly intrigued by Molly Hooper after that long afternoon in her lab. Their short dinner had been pleasant and though she had been nervous, she managed to get through the meal without boring him to death or spilling her wine. Afterwards, he had dropped her at her flat fully intending to forget her but had failed. Instead, he had once again pulled her file and its already capacious contents expanded as he dug into her backstory. He found himself checking the CCTV feeds several times a week just to catch a glimpse of her as she went about her mundane little life. His behavior both worried and galvanized him.

The eldest of two children, her father had died of cancer when she was still in grammar school. Raised by a single mother, the Hooper siblings had been very close. Mum was alternately loving and punishing and Molly had grown up managing her and taking care of younger brother. She had buffered him from the worse of their mother’s craziness but when he eventually came out, mum rejected him and asked him to leave the house.  Although Molly had tried to mend the rift between the two, they never spoke to each other again. Barely two years later, he contracted HIV which rapidly progressed into full blown AIDS. He failed to respond to aggressive treatment, developed lymphoma and was dead in less than six months. Molly’s mother, unstable and alternately saddened and angered by the death of her only son, had lived on less than year.

Molly had somehow persevered through this family maelstrom and had gone on to University, then graduate school and after holding several successful positions in smaller hospitals around London, had finally been hired at St. Bart’s where she had quietly risen through the ranks at the morgue. Though she had been heartbroken by the death of her younger brother, she quietly set aside her grief and got on with her life. She was passionate about her work, lived alone in a small flat with her cat, had a small circle of women friends, a miserable track record with men, was an avid reader of both research materials and fiction and had somehow become quite important to his little brother.

The facts stared up at him from the file and for once, the facts were just not sufficient. He had fought with his rising interest long enough. Sherlock would be irritated but that was just fine with Mycroft. An irritated Sherlock was a communicating Sherlock, even if that communication was heavily laced with vitriol and sarcasm. The impromptu dinner with Miss Hooper had gotten Sherlock quite worked up and he had appeared at the residence the next morning, still fuming over “Mary Poppins” and his interrupted experiment. Mycroft, of course, had seen right through him. Sherlock was jealous of his little pet and did not want to share.

It was time to call on the woman and satisfy his curiosity. He was certain that once he had engaged with her again, she could be safely catalogued and put back on the shelf where she belonged. Unlike Sherlock, he was content to be alone and this odd preoccupation with Molly Hooper would just not do. He keyed his mobile and issued instructions. This shouldn’t take long.

******

Mycroft entered the small café, the bell on the door jingling as it swung shut behind him. It was a charming place, one of his favorites. It reminded him of his favorite boulangerie in Paris. They had excellent coffee, unusual tea blends and exceptional pastries. He hoped Miss Hooper would appreciate his thoughtfulness. He felt quite pleased with himself and even allowed himself a small smile as he looked around for his party.

He caught site on Anthea near the back, standing stiff with her mobile in her hand and looking perturbed. Their eyes met and hers narrowed in irritation. She waited until he was almost up to her, closed her mobile and swept past him with what could only be called “a look”. Obviously, things had not gone well with Miss Hooper.

Mycroft turned and found himself looking into the face of a very angry young woman. He had carefully checked her schedule and knew that she was not on shift at Bart’s. She had no social life to speak of so he had simply sent Anthea to pick her up after a brief text. He had pondered whether the text was required but decided that it was only polite to give her some notice. She had not responded but that as of little concern. He wanted to talk to her so they would talk. Looking at her hands clenched in her lap and her tight, pale face, he realized that he had miscalculated. In treating her as Sherlock would have treated her, he had perhaps made tactical error.

Molly stood, her chair scraping loudly across the floor. Eyes pivoted in their direction and Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. This was not a happy woman.

Her voice was tight and her expression pinched. “Hello, Mycroft.” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked aggrieved. “What have I done that I merited your people snatching me off of the street on my day off? Bored with toppling ruthless dictators and decided to harass a pathologist? I was on my way to do a bit of shopping and then meet my mates and I have no idea where Sherlock is. I haven’t seen him in days and the last time I did he gave me the puppy eyes and was all pouty all because I had gone out to dinner with you. ”

Mycroft looked at her in consternation. She thought this was about Sherlock. Oh dear, he had perhaps miscalculated. He would clear this up and then they could have a nice cup of tea and a few of those amazing lemon bars that had wreaked such havoc with his waistline. Well, maybe just one lemon bar…

Emerging from his pastry fueled reverie, he met Molly’s eyes and spoke. “Miss Hooper, I apologize for my unorthodox methods. You did not respond to my text and I am unused to being ignored. I knew that you were not on shift and so sent Anthea to fetch you. I have something I need to discuss and I wanted to do it in person.”

Molly leant back in her chair, crossed her arms and if anything looked more irritated than before. “I told you Mycroft, I have no idea where Sherlock is. And… “, she paused and rolled her eyes, “maybe I didn’t respond to your text because I have things to do and didn’t feel like jumping through a hoop for another Holmes. I do have a life, you know. I shop, I have friends and I only have so much time for myself. It gets a bit old to always be on-call for Sherlock and I have no desire to add you to my already demanding fan base.”

She rose and donned her light jacket. “I am sorry Mycroft but I have an appointment and need to go. I am sure your people will track down Sherlock far more efficiently than I ever could. Please don’t ever do this again. If you need to talk to me, call me and ask me like a regular human being. I would be happy to talk to you but not right now. I hope you understand.”

She gave him another hard look as if daring him to try to stop her, turned on her heel and walked briskly out of the café without even a backward glance. Mycroft stared after her and heard the cheery jingle of the bell as the door shut behind her. She hadn’t even given him a chance to utter a single word. Miss Hooper was far feistier than he had given her credit for.

Mycroft stood, his head cocked to the side and a thoughtful look on his face. That had not gone well and she had not even allowed him an opportunity to explain. He had miscalculated. Of course she had thought he was looking for information on Sherlock, why else would he have contacted her in the past? He would fix this. He sat in the chair Molly had just vacated and decided he would call Anthea. She would know what to do.

In the meantime, he might as well order a coffee and lemon bar. Just one wouldn’t hurt and he needed the sugar to steady his nerves. He caught the eye of a passing waitress and placed an order.

He had only wanted to ask her out to dinner. How difficult could that be? He sighed and sipped his coffee and took a bite of his lemon bar. He closed his eyes and savored the lightly sweet yet tart filling on top of the delicate buttery crust. Divine as always.

Fortified, he pulled out his mobile and dialed. Time to launch operation Molly Hooper; first phase – apology. Second phase – dinner. Third phase…did he even want a third phase?  The call was answered in less than two rings. “Anthea, I have a slight problem and thought you might be able to offer some advice.”

******

Molly left her final appointment of the day and walked towards the tube station. It was nearly dark and in spite of a good shop, indulging in a pedicure and having a few drinks with her mates, she felt strangely let down. She had been in such a good mood this morning until that damned Anthea had pulled up in her black creep-mobile and bullied her into the back seat. Her day off had been ruined and though she had sworn again and again that she would never again get on the Holmes crazy train, she had been sucked in again anyway. When would she ever learn?

At least it had been Mycroft this time and not Sherlock. She loved Sherlock fiercely and would do almost anything for him but was definitely no longer infatuated with him. It had taken her two long years of frustrated tears, crushed hopes and battered self-esteem to finally put Sherlock in a place where he could no longer hurt her.

She had reached the turning point one night after a truly wretched afternoon in the lab. Sherlock had berated her soundly and unfairly over a set of lab results that were perfectly executed but failed to meet his exacting and unreasonable expectations.  After railing at her for at least 20 minutes, he had swept out of the lab leaving her with the cleanup, once more totally unaware of the carnage he left behind in his wake. She had cried, cursed herself for her stupidity and then bent her head and cleaned up the lab.

At home later over half a bottle of wine and a huge slice of brie with a side of her favorite crusty bread, she decided that from now on Sherlock would simply become weather to her. One couldn’t take the weather personally. Nor could one ever hope to have any control over the weather. Yes, he was just a thunderstorm; full of noise and fury but nothing to do with her.  Slightly tipsy but full of brie and feeling much better, she fell asleep on her couch.

Later that week Sherlock had once again shown up at the lab still overwrought over the test results and tried to bully her into running them again. She had gently refused citing her backlog of paperwork and the long hours she had already spent on charting the results. He escalated, starting to pace and then threw a pen at the wall in frustration. Molly felt a dead calm settle over her, simply looked at him, and asked in a voice she barely recognized if he was done. She then quietly told him he was welcome to run the tests himself as she had to get back to work. She then smiled at him gently, picked up her notes and left the lab.

Silence had reigned in the morgue that afternoon and no one disturbed her. By the time she looked up from her files, satisfied that another long afternoon would see her caught up, it was the end of her shift and the sun was low in the sky. She rose from her desk, stretched and went into the lab to see if Sherlock was still working. The lab was empty, the counters spotlessly clean, the glassware from the tests running in the industrial dish washer and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

From that day on, though he still challenged her, his moods and rages passed over her like the wind. She had lapsed a few times and allowed herself to become upset but it was minor in comparison to her former behavior. She had thought her new calm might infuriate Sherlock but after testing her several times, his bad behavior had moderated and he seemed a bit more respectful. He had even come up with a few grudging pleases and had thanked her at least twice for helping him. Miracles could indeed happen outside the church.

She shook her head. What was it with the Holmes brothers? She had managed to somewhat train Sherlock and had thought after their surprising and productive afternoon in the lab, she had Mycroft figured out as well. What on earth could have motivated him to try to intimidate her into giving him information on Sherlock? Especially when he must have been fairly sure she would have no clue. He had been almost nice to her that afternoon in the lab and she had even enjoyed having dinner with him in spite of her unease. She had decided that she liked him in spite of himself and now she wasn’t so sure. He was a cypher and not one that she was eager to crack.

It was almost full dark and the street lights were winking on. The crowds had thinned considerably and the rush was mostly over. She had almost reached the station entrance when a tall figure stepped out of the shadows, startling her. She instantly went into defensive mode, dropping her shopping bag, her eyes flashing as she considered her escape options. The sweet smell of a broken scent bottle wafted up from her bag. So much for her fun shopping trip, bloody hell.

The man stepped into the light and to her irritation, it was Mycroft Holmes. Rat bastard, she had had enough of him today. She glared at him, was just about to open her mouth and give him piece of her mind when he bent, picked up her bag, carefully handed it back to her and spoke.

“Miss Hooper, I am dreadfully sorry about this morning. I was oblivious to your needs and was thinking only of myself. Please accept my apology and a small token of my esteem.” As if by magic, a small bouquet of pink roses and bluebells, appeared in his hand.

Molly was struck dumb. What the fresh hell was this? Mycroft Holmes had scared her half to death and then offered her flowers. She looked up into his face and saw caution, uneasiness and a tiny flicker of what looked like hope. Not knowing what else to do, she reached out and took the flowers, all the while thinking that Mycroft Holmes had indeed gone round the bend.

Her anger gone, she just felt exhausted and confused. “Uhhh…thank you Mycroft and it’s OK, you didn’t have to apologize or bring me flowers. It’s been a wretched day and I just want to go home. I am tired and grumpy and nothing has gone quite as planned.” She clutched her now leaking bag and raised the flowers unconsciously to her nose. “Oh, they are lovely…”

Mycroft offered her a cautious smile. “You must allow me to take you home. My car is just around the corner and it’s the least I can do after ruining one of your rare free days. Please believe me when I say I am truly sorry and I hope you will accept my apology.”

Molly felt the last of her aggravation drain away. He was trying to be nice and he had apologized twice in less than ten minutes. She shook her head and tried not to sound pitiful. “All right, I surrender, please take me home.”

He looked levelly at her, took her damp and now reeking bag, and offered her his arm. She looked up into his face, tucked her roses into the crook of her arm and took it. She wasn’t sure as she thought about it later, but she could have sworn she heard a quiet sigh of relief followed by what looked like a genuine smile. The ride home was quick, he walked her to her door and left her with a slight bow and a quiet goodnight.

Bollocks, what the hell was up with Mycroft Holmes? Except for a tiny twitch of his long nose when he set her bag down on the lush carpet of his long, black car, he had been quite the gentleman. Nothing like Sherlock, that was certain. Sherlock would have tossed her bag into the bin after loudly whining about the stink and then would have asked her out for dinner without having any money on him and sticking her with the check.  

She looked at the tiny, perfect roses and delicate bluebells. One might almost think… No, one thing she was quite sure of and that was bloody Mycroft Holmes did not fancy her. He did not fancy anyone as far as she knew, not that she knew anything about him. In fact, based upon his slightly prissy ways and his bespoke tailoring, she had been pretty sure he was more than likely to fancy Greg Lestrade than her.

Molly bent and inhaled the heady, spicy scent of the roses. Time for bed. She had quite enough of musing about Mycroft Holmes for one day. She smiled to herself and then laughed to catch herself thinking about the right bastard again. Her hand brushed the lush blooms and a few petals fell to the tabletop.  She felt a new, if cautious, warmth for Mycroft. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all, and who knows? Maybe Greg Lestrade just wasn’t his type.


End file.
